John and I are back on board Lyra and, in preparation for sailing when the family come out in a week’s time, have embarked upon an intense exercise programme, otherwise known as cleaning. We know this regime is effective at producing a honed effect for this has been demonstrated to us by the buff fit young crews of the super yachts. They spend their mornings scrubbing and polishing and then flaunt the results by the pool of an afternoon. A more relevant example for people of our age is probably Doreen. Actually, Doreen is not the name of a person, but of a boat, that lay alongside us when we first arrived in Stabia, but its’ only occupant is a dark haired lady with an old brown dog, so we have taken to referring to the person as Doreen. When dressed Doreen looks to be about our age, clad in her turquoise bikini she loses fifteen years. She has toned arms and legs, a board flat stomach and a bum Madonna would kill for. The lady spends every day from dawn till dusk swabbing and wiping, only pausing to murmur gentle endearments to the dog, which slumps in whichever corner of the cockpit is in the shade. As evening falls the pair amble down the jetty for a short constitutional and we smile and say hello. The dog is somewhat bandy legged and Doreen keeps to its’ pace huddled in a large fleece. They are not gone long enough for this to amount to meaningful exercise. Unless she and the dog practise Ashtanga Yoga below decks of an evening, her bodily perfection is entirely down to cleaning. So we too are stretching and bending in order to wash and wipe. John’s step count is through the roof, though I think a lot of this is arm movement on account of the Fitbit being worn on his right wrist. I have augmented my own step count by trotting back and forth to the washing machine between chores with towels and bedding, which we have had to hang under the Bimini to dry for fear of the wind and possible rain.

So far I have not seen any personal effect, but I certainly feel the process is underway, for muscles I have hitherto been unaware of protest vehemently as I lever myself out of bed each morning.